


you know i held on too much

by unveils



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, sexii selfies!! self indulgence!! let kent parson be a happy dude
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 05:39:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9868481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unveils/pseuds/unveils
Summary: It takes a minute for the pieces to work together in Jack’s brain, but when he catches Kent’s Britney phone case out of the corner of his eye, heat blooms in his chest to match the spread of red across his cheeks, embarrassment and something else entirely. He doesn’t duck his head, but it’s a near thing, under Kent’s crooked grin. “Really? You think now is a good time to be taking pictures?”Two swipes and a press of Kent’s thumb has his camera app sliding open to the picture he took. Jack cranes his neck to see, but Kent presses the phone into his hand, slides his hands around Jack’s neck. “Dude, yeah. You make me look good, Zimms.”--or: the one where jack and kent have fun with camera phones!





	

**Author's Note:**

> alt title: soulja boy kiss me thru the phone ft sammie
> 
> sometimes u just gotta write some self indulgent au shit. this is set in an au where jack and kent made up sometime while jack was at samwell / things worked out for the best and they got back together but it can be read as a past fic if present jackparse isn't your thing (there's no mention of bitty, no explicit mention of their Baggage), you just kinda have to... squint a little, haha. dedicated to kent parson who is my favorite cp boiiiiii / vera+amie who are solely responsible for this. enjoy!

The first time it happens, they’re in Jack’s apartment -- spread out on his couch while Kitchen Nightmares plays in the background. It’s like old times, except it isn’t, because Jack’s never _seen_ Kent the way he is now (thinks, maybe, that he couldn’t have, between the drugs and everything else), open and smiling something bright and untouchable like the sun. They’re just kissing -- Kent on Jack’s lap, Jack’s face pressed against the space between his neck and his collarbone -- when he hears it, unmistakable, the click of an iPhone camera shutter, loud and animated.

Jack freezes, but Kent’s already there, hand settling against Jack’s shoulder. “Hey,” He says, and it’s more of a call to the way his face is soft, still, relaxed. “It’s cool. Just me.”

It takes a minute for the pieces to work together in Jack’s brain, but when he catches Kent’s Britney phone case out of the corner of his eye, heat blooms in his chest to match the spread of red across his cheeks, embarrassment and something else entirely. He doesn’t duck his head, but it’s a near thing, under Kent’s crooked grin. “Really? You think _now_ is a good time to be taking pictures?”

Two swipes and a press of Kent’s thumb has his camera app sliding open to the picture he took. Jack cranes his neck to see, but Kent presses the phone into his hand, slides his hands around Jack’s neck. “Dude, yeah. You make me look good, Zimms.”

It’s -- true, and it’s not in the way Kent’s mid-makeout tangents usually are. Kent looks good on his _own_ , is what Jack thinks immediately -- he’s barely in the picture at all, framed out of it save for the hands on Kent’s hips, the slip of his t-shirt, his dark hair in the corner.  It’s clear why Kent took it, though, his cheeks flushed to frame the spray of freckles spread across the bridge of his nose. His expression would be comical, if it wasn’t for the way there was a hint of honest affection lying underneath the familiar grin, the exaggerated wink. Jack’s had enough practice reading Kent to know how he looks when he’s turned on, when he’s endeared, and it’s not really like Jack needed a photo to realize it, but --

Heat spirals in a second wave, less guilt and far less embarrassment this time.

Kent shifts, then, and Jack looks back up at him. The flush is back, dusted and soft, but Kent’s bravado is still heavy as ever. “I mean, whatever, I can delete it if you want.”

Jack clicks the lock button on the phone, and the screen goes dark.

“Nah,” He says. “Keep it.”

 

\--

 

Kent texts him mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, meaning practice just ended. It’s nothing out of the ordinary -- Kent texts him every Tuesday mid-afternoon after practice ends, usually just some stupid joke or a smiley face.

He doesn’t expect the picture.

It’s a selfie, just like before, but this time, it’s just Kent, all bare skin and sweat reflected in the locker room bathroom mirror. Square format -- likely for instagram, judging by the way color filters over it -- framing Kent’s collarbones up to the curve of his grin, smug and self-assured. Ten years ago, Jack would’ve had a hard time not counting the freckles, the sunspots, tracking the way Kent’s collarbones dip so sharply against the ridges of his shoulders, but now the point of focus is obvious.

It should be, anyway. He’s the one who left it there.

The hickey is deep and dark, a heavy purple bruise with an unmistakable ring of teeth lining the edge.

For a minute, Jack’s dizzy with the memory, Kent’s voice breathy but firm in his ear whining _harder, Jack, come on._ For a minute, Jack thinks he’d hurt Kent -- had he? -- but he’s got this thing these days about not jumping to conclusions, about taking breaths, about waiting for things to play out before he decides how to feel about them.

Jack waits approximately four seconds for the typing bubble to give way to the vibrating buzz against his palm.

 

**Kenny:**

i didnt even notice until i came to shower

kinda went to town, huh zimms

 

**Me:**

Haha

 

He’s halfway through typing ‘sorry’ when his phone buzzes again.

 

**Kenny:**

i like it though

instagram worthy y/n

 

Jack stares at his phone.

He’s got this thing about waiting for things to play out before he decides how to feel about them.

 

**Me:**

Yes.

 

\--

 

It’s up within the hour -- 400+ comments that Jack can’t even begin to scroll through -- the same photo of Kent that he’d sent Jack, same filters, same smile, same collarbones and freckles and hickey. Jack presses a fist to his smile, a habit even though he’s alone in his room.

 

 **kvparson90:** tgif man [ ✌ ](http://emojipedia.org/victory-hand/)

 

\--

 

It’s not really a thing. They don’t talk about it, and Kent always keeps Jack out of the pictures in any kind of way that would identify him. They’re always PG-13, and they’re always selfies. Some Kent puts on Instagram with vague captions, some he just keeps.

They’re back on Jack’s couch watching Kitchen Nightmares after one of Kent’s particularly rough Friday practices, foot half in Jack’s lap as he takes up more than half the sofa.

He’s going on about how the jersey fabric Troy convinced him to order for practice is off-color, about the new practice ref’s biased calls, about his teammates and what they like about his style, what they don’t -- it all sounds casual, cool in Kent’s collected tone, but Jack knows when Kent’s excited about something.

He looks different these days. Open and smiling something bright and untouchable like the sun.

“Anyway, I’m beat.” Kent yawns, but doesn’t make any move to get off the couch or rearrange himself. “One of these days my legs are just gonna detach from my body, man. Like fucking Barbie parts.”

Kent doesn’t mean anything by it, but Jack’s pressing his thumbs into the ridge of Kent’s foot before the infomercial on the television can run its course. Kent groans, half surprise and half relief, slouching further into the couch cushions. They used to do this when they were kids, and it was usually Kent’s idea -- _“How’re you gonna play if your shoulder’s bugging you so bad, Zimms? It’s no big.”_ \-- always an excuse for something more. It’s soft, now, though, no tension taut between the two of them in anticipation for something more.

Jack feels it build all the same, in the way Kent’s shoulders go slack, the way his face softens, eyes closed and mouth half parting on a sigh.

“Hey, Kenny?” Jack starts, and Kent cracks an eye open. He doesn’t give himself time to really overthink it, which has been key, lately. “How’re you gonna play if your legs are bugging you so bad?”

At Kent’s confusion, he gives a soft smile, a little crooked. Gets to his knees on the carpet, settles between Kent’s legs, and realization hits Kent like a freight train, full-on by the way he’s blushing, now, too.

Jack’s fingers are swift on the opening of Kent’s jeans -- same kind since high school, designer build and far too baggy. He’s busy, he reasons, with whatever makes Kent’s breathing start to stutter, so it makes sense that he doesn’t look up when he says it.

“Get the camera.”

 

\--

 

Kent’s out of town for the next two weeks. There are times when it doesn’t feel heavy, and times when it does. Jack’s watching Kitchen Nightmares when he pulls out his phone, scrolls until Kent’s name pops up.

 

**Me:**

You up?

 

It’s late, and after about ten minutes, Jack starts to doze. But then his phone vibrates.

 

**Kenny:**

yeah ish

enough anyway

cant sleep?

 

Gordon Ramsay is yelling at some man in the background when Jack taps out his reply.

 

**Me:**

It’s not that  
I was just wondering if you could send me that video

 

Kent starts typing immediately, after that, but it stops after a handful of seconds. Eventually, his phone vibrates again.

 

**Kenny:**

[file attached: xoxox.m4v]

 

\--

 

It starts with Kent’s breathing -- soft, in the dark -- and the sound of Kitchen Nightmares in the background. There’s not a lot that’s recognizable in the dark, but when the camera suddenly shifts, Jack can see Kent’s flat stomach, a dust of blonde hair that he never quite learned how to stop following. His fingers work through the buttons on Kent’s pants with ease, and Jack can count every callous he still has, every callous he doesn’t.

He swallows.

Suddenly, Kent’s voice is there, a little rough but smile-obvious all the same. “Hey, Zimms,” He starts, and  Jack watches Kent’s hand trail down his stomach, guide the camera towards a bob of hair that Kent weaves his fingers into like it’s second nature. Watching himself smile back at the camera, soft but anything but shy, is something that burns through him more than anything else.

It starts slow -- Jack watches himself slick his hand with a swipe of his tongue, pump Kent’s dick between his fingers until Kent’s shuddering, pushing hair up out of Jack’s face so it’s a clean shot of his cheekbones. A second later and Kent’s tracing the outline of his dick in Jack’s mouth, muttering something muffled, groaning something unintelligible.

“You’re so good at this,” Kent says, and this time, when the camera readjusts to frame, it’s just Jack, full-on, with his mouth full of Kent’s dick, drool pooling lazily at the left side of his mouth. The frame tilts again, drags hazy across his face at an angle as Kent moves to swipe at his lips with his thumb. “I love your lips. Superstar lips. America’s next top lip model, Jack Zimmerman--”

Kent’s cackle of a laugh slurs into a moan, and he manages, “Alright, alright, okay--” Before the angle changes again.

This time, it’s Jack pressing forward, Kent holding himself steady at the base against Jack’s tongue. He knows what’s going to happen before it does, but feels it spiral like a coil of heat in his gut all the same. Kent strokes himself hard and fast, slurs his words when he speaks -- “So damn pretty, fuck. So good--”

When Kent comes, it’s with a groan of Jack’s name, raw and real and hot, striping Jack’s face and mouth with white.

“God, _fuck_ , Jack.” Kent sounds wrecked, and Jack can feel how raw it is. “Babe, you look so hot. Come here--”

The camera drops a second later to black, the murmur of voices indistinct, but Jack knows to wait.

Half a minute rolls by and then there’s Kent, smiling wide, pressed against Jack’s side on Jack’s duvet.

“Zimms,” He sing-songs. “Why don’t you say goodnight for the camera?”

  
Jack smiles.


End file.
